


burn for you

by msaudreyanne



Category: Anastasia (1997), Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Angst, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Slow Burn, bridgerton-inspired, they just don't know it yet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 06:06:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28577223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msaudreyanne/pseuds/msaudreyanne
Summary: a bridgerton-influenced dimya fic, only i get to pick and choose which parts i thought were ridiculous (in a bad way) and leave them out/change them. muahahahahahaha. still love the series, though.
Relationships: Dimitri | Dmitry/Anya | Anastasia Romanov (Anastasia 1997 & Broadway)
Comments: 29
Kudos: 30





	1. Chapter 1

Dmitry had never quite become accustomed to the stench of London. He could never voice it aloud, but he longed for his homeland more than anything. 

Not that Russia didn’t come with its own particular stink. However, he desperately missed the crisp, bitter winter air that burned his lungs, the Neva as it flowed in springtime, and the inherent feeling of being home. 

Vlad and Lily would correct him, if they’d heard him dithering about. “ _Nonsense, Dmitry. Russia is a cold, barren wasteland. London is your home now.”_

He snorted at the thought of this place ever measuring up to his Petersburg. 

While he might not be scrounging for food and sleeping under bridges anymore, he could not help but feel like he’d traded a part of himself in exchange for the luxuries London had to offer. 

His father would be disgusted with him. He could hear the sneer in his voice, even now when the man was very much dead and in the ground. 

He’d raised Dmitry himself, Dmitry’s mother dying shortly after his birth from fever, and instilled in his only child a deep mistrust and resentment of those born to more fortunate circumstances. He’d rant and rave for hours by the fire of their tiny little room, raging at the Tsar and any associated with him for caring more about pageantry and pomp than feeding the greater population. 

At the time, Dmitry couldn’t help but agree with him. It was hard to feel anything but seething towards the wealthy elite when they could go days without a meal. 

He would come to find, though, that it was partly his father’s pride that had damned them both to a life of destitution. 

Vlad had come to collect him several months after his father’s passing. Dmitry had never known he’d had any family that existed outside of his mother and father. He’d always been told relatives were long gone, a sentiment that he’d taken to mean dead. But Vlad was very much alive, and very much the exact opposite of Dmitry’s father. 

Where his father was tall and thin, a product of years of malnutrition, Vlad was shorter and quite portly. Dmitry could tell Vlad had never missed a meal, and his own stomach had grumbled miserably at the thought. Where his father seemed to be permanently scowling at the world, Vlad always had an easy smile on his face. 

At first, Dmitry had thought him mad. 

Then of course, after Vlad had told him of the delicate matter at hand, he’d thought him definitely mad. 

How had the man even found him? Ever since his father died, Dmitry had been kicked out of their one-room home and he’d been sleeping wherever he felt safest - which wasn’t an easy thing to accomplish. 

Humorless laughter always escaped him whenever he thought of the changes his life had taken.

Vlad had come to collect him because he was in need of an heir. 

Apparently, when Dmitry’s father had said any relatives were long gone, he meant “living peacefully as the Duke of Bolton.” 

Dmitry loved his father, but when he thought about the empty stomachs, the terrible sicknesses they both endured, and their overall suffering, all because of a stupid quarrel between brothers, he loathed the man. 

What kind of father would subject his only child to such a thing? Had Dmitry really meant so little to him?

No matter. 

He’d lived with Vlad and his wife Lily for several years now, attempting to learn the ins and outs of being a Duke. Most of it was absolutely mind-numbing, if he was truthful. Dmitry cared not for the traditions and socializations that went with the title. He only needed a roof over his head, a well-tended fire, and a warm meal or two. 

Unfortunately, Lily had declared upon his most recent return from Duke lessons, that it was high time he started looking for a suitable bride. He’d need a well-mannered lady of respectable birth to help run his keep and provide him with heirs of his own. 

He’d rather burn at the stake than marry some foolish, meek little woman and use her as a broodmare. The idea sent his stomach rolling. 

But he let Lily have her fun in the moment. Little did she know, he’d made a vow to himself - and the spirit of his _dear_ father - to remain a bachelor for life. A fancy title couldn’t change the fact that he was nothing more than a Russian street rat promenading around in tailcoats made of velvet and silk finer than anything he’d ever seen back home. 

Except for that one parade he’d managed to convince his father to take him to - a feat in its own. He’d tried to reason with him that they could pick pockets with everyone distracted. Little did his father know that Dmitry himself had fallen under the spell of one of the carriages trotting through the procession.

A girl dressed in diamonds and silk of sunshine had been demurely waving to the crowds when he’d caught her eye. He ran through the bodies packed tightly together to attempt to get closer - why, he had no idea. Finally, though, he’d managed to break through and the smile she graced him with kept him warm on some of the darkest of nights. Before he could stop himself - and he just _knew_ his father would kill him if he saw - he sunk into a low bow for this fine lady he’d just met. 

He could still hear her giggle over the roar of the people behind him. 

Dmitry shook himself now. He was a fool then for his actions and a fool now, for even allowing a glimmer of hope that he might manage some level of happiness and love in his life. Love hadn’t saved his mother. Love couldn’t make his father see reason and seek out the aid of his brother. 

And love would never, ever, come to Dmitry Sudayev, future Duke of Bolton. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 💛💛💛


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> introduction of the Romanov sisters

Anya winced as Tatiana’s sure fingers wove different pieces of her hair in and out of an elaborate design. 

The Romanov’s employed several maids, so the task of readying Anya for tonight’s ball needn’t fall on her sisters’ shoulders. However, Olga, Tatiana and Maria never failed to pass on an opportunity to treat their youngest sister as their own personal doll. 

The last several years had not been kind to the Romanov family, so if Anya could allow her sisters this small joy, she could sit (mostly) quietly as they fretted about. They were attempting to keep a cheery air about them, but Anya knew the importance of tonight’s ball had raised exponentially after her disastrous presentation before the Queen. 

Her Majesty had taken one look at her blue eyes and slight lift of her chin and scoffed. 

“Another Romanov girl? We should’ve never let those dirty Russians in.” 

Angry tears had threatened to form in her eyes, but Anya refused to cower beneath the cruel woman. Disgraced or not, she was the daughter of Grand Duke Nicholas Romanov and the Russian court she’d grown up in was infinitely more vicious than these fair-weathered, inbred Brits could ever dream to be. 

But her quick mouth wouldn’t help her find a suitable match like her sisters had, especially if it ended her up in the gallows. 

She hated that her life had been reduced to this. Anya wasn’t meant to be stifled. Had they stayed in Russia - and not caught the Tsar’s ire - Anya would’ve had her choice of eligible suitors. She could have taken her time, found someone that would appreciate her unique fire, and perhaps would’ve even found love. 

Sadly though, the only attentions she’d received since her presentation had been from the notorious Lord Gleb Vaganov. 

The craven turncoat had defected from Russia, filling the Queen’s ear with all sorts of imperial secrets and in return, had been styled a Lord. 

_Lord of Nothing,_ she thought venomously. 

While her family had been forced to flee her beloved homeland, they refused to budge when questioned by various members of the British royal family for secrets. 

Russian until the day they perished, her father had sworn. 

At first, it had seemed silly to her to make such a vow. But after experiencing more of what London was at its core, Anya felt herself turn to steel. So many things had been taken from her, but she would never lose her identity. 

And marrying _Lord_ Vaganov would be the final sacrifice of who she was. 

She’d rather join a nunnery than ever entertain an offer from him. 

He was so persistent, though. He’d come to visit her father several times. The two men would disappear with brandy glasses and emerge not even an hour later, both sporting rather pinched looks on their faces. 

Her father despised Lord Vaganov as much as she did, but they all knew he could not slam the door in his face in rejection. They would all need to play their parts until Anya had married - preferably to anyone other than that horrid man. 

Tatiana’s hands fell from her hair and rested on her shoulders. 

“Well, dear Shvibzik. What do you think?”

She had managed to tame Anya’s curls that matched her personality in color into quite the coif. Anya wouldn’t have been able to achieve such a look on her own. Small pearled pins held the elegant bun just off of her neck, exposing the delicate pale skin. 

Oh, how she longed for her high-collared riding cloak. 

Perhaps she would find a match tonight. If so, she hoped the man lived outside of the city. She loathed the stench with a great passion and longed for the days when she could spend hours riding. It had been her favorite pastime back home, but the stress of their exile, paired with her mother and brother’s poor health, had all but stopped the activity. 

“It looks beautiful, Tatya. Thank you. I just hope I live up to all of your hard work.” 

Olga stood from where she was hemming a dress of hers. It was a light powdered blue – Anya loathed the starch whites – and lined with dainty floral patterns around the skirt and bodice. Anya hadn’t quite reached the height of her sisters, but it only needed minor adjustments, her eldest sister had assured her. 

“You know Mama and Papa would’ve gotten you a new dress for tonight, Anastasia. It’s not as if we’re the Featheringtons.” 

Maria looked as if she wanted to scold Olga for such a remark, but she clearly thought better of it. Maria was definitely the kindest of the sisters. As such, she knew that reprimanding Olga would only result in bickering and that was the last thing anyone needed tonight. 

“I know that, Olya. But I have always loved this dress. I remember when you first wore it. You looked like a beautiful fairy princess. Besides, according to you, it is the _exact_ shade of blue to draw attention to my eyes.” She gave a pointed, teasing look at her sister, clearly believing that she had outsmarted her. 

“Ah, yes. And if the men are focused on her eyes, they will overlook the thinly-veiled insults Shvibzik throws at them.” 

The sisters laughed then, full and free. Anya missed this, missed _them_ , so much. Since Maria had left with her husband last spring, the home had been so quiet. While she knew, logically, that she would (hopefully) soon be leaving as well with her own husband, she dreaded the day when her sisters would return to their lives. They’d descended upon their Nana’s home in order to assist Anya on her journey to wifedom and for a few brief moments, she could almost pretend they were back in Russia together. 

Once they sobered, remembering the limited time they were operating under, they quickly helped Anya dress. Maria pulled out a simple diamond necklace and earrings - a loan from their Nana. As she fastened the necklace, careful to mind the hair Tatiana had been so diligent with, she attempted conversation again. 

“They say the future Duke of Bolton will be in attendance tonight. At least, that is what I overheard Nana telling Mama earlier.” 

This piqued everyone’s interest. 

“The Duke of Bolton? Isn’t Nana acquaintances with the Duchess?” Maria nodded at Olga. 

“I wasn’t aware they had an heir?” Anya would be the first to admit she never cared for keeping up with the various titles the Brits had for themselves, nor their garbled family trees. 

“He’s been a well-guarded secret, I suppose.” Odd. Nothing stayed a secret long in this social setting. “But his rumored arrival has caused quite the stir among opportunistic mothers.”

“I heard they plucked him out of the gutters of Petersburg, actually.” Tatiana had never met the man, but her disapproval had been decided upon, it seemed.

“Where on earth did you hear that, Tatiana?” Maria pinned the last earring in and finally, Anya was ready.

“The gutters of Petersburg? Is he a drunkard?” Anya had met the Duchess of Bolton once. She didn’t seem the type to tolerate such behavior, but if they were in need of an heir, she probably had to overlook certain things. 

“No one knows. Perhaps you’ll be able to find out tonight, Shvibzik.” Olga drew the attention back to Anya and she felt the nerves settle in. 

“No Duke, drunk or not, would want anything to do with me. But thank you, Olya.” 

“Nonsense. You are Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanov, daughter of Grand Duke Nicholas Romanov. You are a beautiful tyul'pan and any man would be lucky to receive your affections.” 

If only she felt as strong and beautiful as Olga made her seem...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for the delay! hope you liked this chapter 💛
> 
> thank you for reading!!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anya and Dmitry finally meet! Also: Gleb sucks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to make up for being AWOL for over a month...I give you an update longer than the first two chapters combined! woo!

They’d arrived at this godforsaken ball less than ten minutes ago, and Dmitry already wanted to gouge out his own eyes.

No sooner had he escorted Lily through the threshold of whatever egotistical Lord or Lady that hosted the event, did the vultures swoop in, poised to kill.

Lily, for her part, appeared shocked at the attention they were receiving. As if she hadn’t spoken with each opportunistic matriarch in the weeks leading up to this night.

Did she take him for an idiot?

She’d had enough sense to coerce him into promising that he’d stay for the duration of the event, but he found himself wondering if starting a fight with one of the daft fools lining the edge of the dance floor would be worth Lily’s ire.

At least then, he’d get to leave early. Maybe, if he was truly lucky, he’d be uninvited to all future events…

He politely excused himself from the latest- absolutely _invigorating -_ conversation he’d been forced into with whatever spoiled Miss that Lily shoved at him. Making his way through the throngs of other partygoers, he couldn’t help but feel eyes on him. And not in the way they’d been so far.

This feeling caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end. Sure enough, as he made his second lap around the ballroom, he caught a man appraising him over a glass of bourbon. He couldn’t quite understand it, but something about the man unsettled him.

Dmitry made note to ask Lily later if she knew who the man was and why he might be so interested in him.

Whispers around him turned vicious and biting, catching his attention. Movement by the entrance seemed to be the subject of the whispers.

A family stood gathered there, all sporting varying shades of auburn hair and the same crystal blue eyes.

Eyes that had his heart aching in an ancient way, but he shook himself, pulling at his collar. Clearly, the stress of the evening had gotten to him. There was little chance a Russian aristocratic family would be in London…

Besides. If one of them had been _her_ , he would have known it without a doubt in his mind.

* * *

Anya had made several turns about the ballroom with Alexei in an effort to find someone – anyone but _him_ – that might ask her to dance. She likely looked like overeager and desperate, but she’d be damned if she had to spend her first ball with Lord Vaganov’s sweaty hands – he had that look, she could tell – palming at her.

Her sisters, bless them, had staged a diversion at the entrance, eager to pull the attention away from Anya so that she could slip through.

Alexei had claimed to finally feeling well enough to accompany her tonight, for which she was so grateful. Secretly, they’d concocted an early escape plan if things got to be too unbearable. Alexei’s condition, while not publicly known, was often speculated about. No one would think twice to the Romanov’s making a swift exit when the excitement became too much.

If anything, they’d love something else to gossip about.

Her grip on his arm tightened when she felt Lord Vaganov’s eyes on her. How that man was able to find her so consistently drove her mad. That, and frightened the daylights out of her.

“We need to keep moving,” she hissed into Alexei’s side.

He ushered them through another room where people had gathered to admire various paintings scaling the walls. It’s there that they reunite with the remaining Romanov siblings. Maria hands her a drink and looks sympathetic to Anya’s sufferings. The first ball was always the worst.

“If he’s a drunkard, he’s a handsome one. I’ll give him that.” Olga sipped her own glass and ignored Tatiana’s snort of disapproval.

“Who?”

“The future Duke of Bolton. We caught him trying to outrun a flock of dithering hens just before you found us.”

“Hmmm.”

Anya couldn’t help it; she was intrigued. She’d have to ask Nana if she knew more about this mysterious man.

Not that Anya wanted to meet him. No, heavens no. But it would be nice to know someone here in London that was from Russia, who wasn’t currently trying to trap her in matrimony…

Was that too much to ask of Fate?

“Vaganov is coming. Quick. We can deflect for a bit.” Tatiana squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, looking every inch Alexandra Romanov’s daughter.

Anya needn’t be told twice. Without looking behind her, she slipped through her sisters and wove through the crowds.

She hadn’t realized just how panicked she was at the prospect of Lord Vaganov finding her. Never before had a man made her skin absolutely crawl.

She was so focused on putting as much distance as possible between them that she didn’t notice the person in front of her until she slammed into their solid form.

Warm hands caught her, saving them both from toppling over, and she could barely get out an apology what with her voice catching in her throat.

Eyes as rich as chocolate stared back at her. They flashed with what looked like recognition before she took notice of the annoyance written plainly on the man’s face. He dropped his hands from her and she immediately noticed the chill without them.

“I do apologize, sir, I was not paying attention to where I was going.” She dipped in a slight curtsey, trying to remember the hours of manners her sisters had taught her.

“You lot have some nerve; I’ll give you credit for that.” His voice, although stiff, didn’t fill her with the dread like Lord Vaganov’s. If anything, her ears perked up at it.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Throwing yourself at whatever eligible man you can. I had hoped you could show some decency. Tell me, how successful has this tactic been for you?”

“Excuse you. I do not even know who you are!” She felt the indignation rise up within her. How dare he? Anya would never throw herself at any man.

“A likely sentiment. Do yourself a favor, Miss. Coy does not suit you.”

Oh how she wanted to stomp on his foot right there in the room full of people. What an arrogant _ass._

Her mind finally caught up with his voice, ignoring the harsh words he hurled at her.

“You’re from Russia, aren’t you? I recognize the accent.” Horror crosses his face, but only for a moment. “You must be Lily’s nephew.”

Before he could respond, she felt the familiar chill up her spin, alerting her that Vaganov was nearby. She peered over her shoulder ever-so-slightly and sure enough Lord Vaganov was walking quite determinedly towards them.

She spun back to face the other infuriating man and whispered hurriedly to him.

“Please, for the love of Mother Russia, ask me to dance. I’ll owe you my life.”

He was confused by her statement, that much was clear. Just as he was about to respond, though, Lord Vaganov appeared at their side.

“Miss Romanov. I’ve been looking for you. Would you care to dance?”

Anya looked fearfully back at Lily’s nephew. Silently, she pleaded with him to help her. He must’ve gotten the message, because he cleared his throat, drawing Lord Vaganov’s attention.

“I do apologize, good sir. But I had just asked this Lady for the next dance. Perhaps once we are finished, you may try your proposal again.”

There’s a lazy smirk there, stretching across his face. For a moment, Anya worried Vaganov might say something; cause a scene. Instead, he simply nodded at the pair rather curtly and disappeared back into the crowd. 

Her savior led her to the dance floor then. She found it fairly easy to tune out the whispers that followed them, especially when that lazy smirk appeared again.

He was rather handsome…especially when he swept her into a slow waltz. The confidence he exuded was mesmerizing.

Anya wondered if any other the other things she’d heard about him were true…

She was the first to break the silence between them. She argued that she needed to learn more about this man, but secretly, she wanted to hear his voice again.

“Thank you. I owe you for all eternity.”

His smirk faltered a moment.

“What is the story with that one, then?” He gave a miniscule nod with his head.

Anya made sure there weren’t any other couples around to overhear them.

“He’s a craven turncoat. Fled Russia and spilled all sorts of secrets to the Queen. She made him a Lord for it.”

“And now…?”

“Now he’s set his sights on me.”

Her dance partners hands tightened faintly against her.

“Because you’re also Russian?”

Anya sighed, suddenly very tired.

“Because he sees it as a great conquest. Stealing the youngest daughter from the once great Grand Duke Nicholas Romanov is just another feather in his cap.”

His hands tightened a little bit more. If anyone were paying attention closely enough, they’d see the pair were toeing the line of propriety. But Anya delighted in the feel of him holding her so firmly to him.

Like she might be safe, with him.

“Ahhh. So you’re a Romanov?”

“You didn’t know?”

He eyes lock with hers, lingering there for a moment.

“I had my suspicions.”

“Yes. I am Anastasia Romanov. But please, call me Anya.”

There was that smirk again.

“That’s rather familiar for a man you’ve just met, Miss Romanov.”

She scoffed and glanced at the crowds observing them.

“I’ve never been one for propriety. And I do believe allowing you to call me by my given name is the least I can do for your chivalry.”

Silence settled between them for several moments. She tried to ignore how pleasant it was, dancing with him. Just minutes before, she’d been ready to strangle this man for his rudeness.

“So was I correct? You are the infamous heir to the Duke of Bolton?”

He stiffened against her. Anya immediately wished she could have phrased it more delicately. Olga was always the tactful one, damnit.

“Infamous?”

_Oh._ His voice had taken a new edge to it. Almost gravely as he looked down to her again. She couldn’t look away, then. He’d pinned her with his gaze and she couldn’t stop the truth from spilling out.

“They say you were a drunk, plucked from the streets of Petersburg.” She can sense the change in him. “The accent matches, and they were correct about how handsome you were; however I do not detect even the slightest amount of alcohol on you.”

He didn’t miss the comment about him being handsome, much to her chagrin. Blushing, she continued, hoping to push past the embarrassment.

“Lord knows if you were going to drink, it’d be at this God-awful event.”

He snorts, completely undignified and drawing the attention of pairs near them, and she cheers herself for breaking his façade.

“These English pomps are not very creative, are they?”

“Not really, no.”

“I am from Petersburg, it’s true. And according to you, I _am_ handsome. I can assure you though, that I have never drank a drop in my life. Although I am tempted to find out if vodka really is the magic cure-all after everything that has transpired this evening.”

“Oh? Is dancing with me driving you to drink?”

He grew serious for a moment.

“While I don’t normally rescue maidens in distress, no, you are not the issue this evening.”

That was not entirely a compliment, yet it made her stomach flip all the same.

“Would it have anything to do with the majority of the female population glaring at me currently?”

She’d felt their eyes on her, yes. But she had grown accustomed to eyes and whispers following her everywhere she went.

“Perhaps I shall ask you to keep dancing, then, if it keeps them at bay.”

“How positively wicked of you. What if I require a break? I was not counting on dancing at all this evening.”

That seemed to perplex him.

“How then, would you find a match? I assume that is what you are after, since you are here.”

“None of these men have any interest with the fourth daughter of a foreign aristocrat, I assure you. I am likely doing more damage to your reputation than good.” He looked ready to argue, but she cut him off. “The only man with interest in me is not a man I would marry, were he the last option on Earth. Were we in Russia, I’d be allowed time to find a suitor who loved me and whom I loved in return.”

He leaned in to whisper against her ear, eliciting gasp from her.

“For an observant Miss, you seem to be missing all the attention you are currently getting from the gentlemen present this evening.”

She felt almost drunk off his close proximity. How could she begin to process the idea that others were interested with her when this man held her so?

“Oh?”

“Believe me, Anya. They are all looking at you.”

She smiled at his use of her name. Then, she realized she still hadn’t learned his.

“You needn’t give me your given name, but I would like to know what to call you, if I may? The British and their titles are so confusing. What does one call the heir to the Duke of Bolton?”

This man would set her aflame with those eyes, she was sure of it. She could only hold his gaze for so long before needing to look elsewhere. His smile was perhaps her favorite option at the moment.

“People call me many things. None that a lady such as yourself would ever dare repeat. However, since we are in the business of saving each other, I feel it is only right that you call me Dmitry.”

_Dmitry._ Oh, that was fitting. A good, strong Russian name for her protector. She smiled delicately at him and admired the way he softened and relaxed against her.

* * *

They danced in pleasant peace after that. Whispers continued to follow them around the floor, having already danced longer than was proper, but they ignored each and every one of them.

It wasn’t until one of her sisters reached her side that they realized how much time had passed. She whispered low to Anya, but Dmitry managed to catch it.

“Shivbzik. It’s Alexei.”

Worry marred Anya’s perfect features. She turned and curtsied to him, thanking him for the lovely evening with a blush on her cheeks.

Before he could say anything in return, she was gone. He caught her sister’s narrowed gaze as she herded the others out as well.

Later, Lily looked as if she wanted to question him during their carriage ride home. He expected her to, really. But she let him stew in his thoughts in silence.

Of course he had recognized _her._ He’d dreamed of those eyes, those lips – _that smile_ – for over a decade.

Why hadn’t he told her?

Why _would_ he tell her? He was not going to pursue her, despite the change in his station. She had been a beautiful girl, but she had blossomed into a breathtaking woman. She’d knocked the wind out of him both physically and mentally when she’d ran into him earlier that evening.

She’d also apparently developed quite an attitude, something he thought of with a smile. It seemed fitting that the girl who broke protocol to smile and laugh at him as he bowed was a strong, fiery woman.

His smile quickly turned to a frown as he recalled what she’d said about that Lord Vaganov fellow.

Anya needed to be cherished. _Loved_. She needed to flourish and burn bright, as she was meant to. To think a man like Vaganov – whom he actually knew very little about – trying to break that spirit set his blood to boil.

Surely there was something he could do to help her…even if he knew she could never be his. He didn’t deserve the type of love Anya would give. And he’d be damned if he tied her to a miserable life with him.

But still…he could solve the immediate Vaganov problem…

He tossed and turned throughout the night, haunted by the girl from the parade, dancing safely in his arms, over and over again.

Unknown to him, several miles away, Anya, too, found herself dreaming of dancing endlessly with a handsome prince.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think!
> 
> Thanks for reading 💛💛💛


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